like a lonely solitaire with just despair for company
by Dorminchu
Summary: When you're your own best friend, things can get a little messy. [1x08, 1x09]


a/n: Title comes from the track _Everything You've Ever Dreamed_, by Shiro Sagisu. Not quite what I'd define as a romance, but not exactly platonic?

ALSO: Mr. Robot ≠ Edward Alderson. Whether this makes the subject matter less or more unsettling is up to you.

* * *

I remember the way he looked when I threw myself out my old bedroom window.  
Glasses scratched, the same cut on his forehead. Lost his hat in the fall.  
He was more afraid for my sake than angry.  
A reflection of my own desperation.

* * *

We don't talk much on the train ride back.  
But I can feel his eyes on me.  
Concern twists his features into something more intimate.

Can't ignore the way we've latched onto each other since we met.  
Finding solace in his company.  
Wanting to earn his affection.  
Hoping he'd notice.  
Glad when he did.

I won't pretend I didn't like it.

He knows too much about me.  
I can't hack him, either. He already knows what I would do in any situation.  
It's a one-way mirror.

I didn't let him clean the blood from my forehead.  
Left that to Angela.  
She wouldn't let me say no, anyway.

Darlene rides with us, adjacent to me.  
I guess Angela told her to keep an eye on me.  
Or she just butted her way in, again, as per usual.  
Wish she'd take the hint for once.

At the same time, I'm glad she's here.  
Because right now he's sitting directly in front of me.  
People stare a little, because I'm all cut up and dirty and Darlene keeps looking at him—well, the empty space my eyes are fixed on—but none of this bothers me as much as being trapped in the same space with my sister.

So I look at my knees. Out the window.  
Anywhere but her face.  
I'm afraid of what I will see.  
Of what he will say to her.

It kills me to shut her out.  
Nothing I can say will help.

She has every reason to be disgusted, after what I did.  
Fuck, she doesn't even know everything about HIM, yet.

He's far too close to be a friend.  
Phantom warmth and touch.  
Platonic, to a point.  
I was getting used to him before today.  
Starting to like him more than I could afford to.  
He's never pushed me away like Darlene.

And he's not a total dick all the time.  
We understand each other without having to say a word.  
He walks with me and Flipper.  
He asks about my day. If or when he can ever meet my therapist.  
Told him no.  
He can get a little grating, sure.  
Definitely wish he'd drop the idea that he'll EVER meet Krista.

But I'd rather listen to him than Ollie.  
Even Angela gets fed up with my bullshit sometimes.  
Not him.  
He always keeps pushing me onward.  
He's proud of me.  
He's stuck around this long.

I realize I've been doing nothing but talking about him while trying to ignore him.  
This isn't healthy.

It was sweet while it lasted.  
Pretending I had a real friend, or whatever I thought of him as.

* * *

Now we're home.  
I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, in my apartment.  
Counting floorboards.  
It's something I did when I was young.

What do I tell Krista?

I'm living with an imaginary roommate who takes over when I am no longer able to function.  
He just so happens to resemble my dead father.  
I've told him many things I probably shouldn't.  
Thought about him in ways I shouldn't.  
Never given much thought as to why, until now.  
I don't think Krista would call this an improvement.

He's the one that's been doing the yelling during my appointments.  
Krista couldn't tell the difference because up until now, I couldn't, either.

But it's only me here, right now.  
My hands are empty.  
My mind's intact.

He won't leave.  
Just stands in the middle of the room and watches me go through the motions.

Get up.  
I haven't eaten since this morning.  
He offers to fix us some ramen.  
Ignore him.  
Fill a glass of water.  
Down the whole thing.

Put it down forcefully on the counter.  
The noise resounds through the tiny room.  
My hands are shaking. He's still watching me.

I don't know what he's waiting for.  
Usually he's the one to instigate conversations.  
Crack a joke.  
Ask me how I'm doing.  
Berate my lack of progress or choice in friends.  
Congratulate my—our—most recent success.  
Now he's silent.

Still wearing the white baseball cap.  
My dad had a cap like that.  
Now he's dead.  
Rotting in a grave.

I wish I had the courage to destroy him.  
But we both know what that would entail.  
It's probably why he hasn't left me alone.

From this point, I'm my own ruiner.  
But then, I was always fucked in the head.  
Fuck, I already kissed my sister, didn't I?  
Because I _forgot_ she existed.

Hear his footsteps approaching.  
Tense up.

"Elliot?"

His voice is low.  
For once he's not in control.

"Elliot."

Suddenly his hand is on my shoulder.  
Flinch.  
I don't want to turn around, but I do.  
His frame occupies empty space.

My father is dead.  
A corpse riddled with worms.

He's whole in my arms.  
Embracing me.

Telling me I'll never be alone.  
Telling me he loves me.  
He loves me.

Throat tightens.  
He holds me close.  
Going to be sick.  
Retching turns to a strangled sob.

Dad, I croak.

He flinches.  
Wrench myself free.  
Can't look him in the eyes.  
Pace the length of the room.  
Head in hands.  
I'm sick.  
Fucked up.

I don't want to lose him again.  
Don't want to remember the way I looked at him before today.  
Of course, I forgot all about him, too.

Take my place in the corner of the room.  
Curl into myself.  
Helpless.

He's protected me.  
Guided me into great things.  
And lied to me.  
And led me astray.  
All for this.

"Elliot," he says hoarsely. "Please."

I think I'm crying.

He kneels down in front of me.  
We're eye-to-eye.

No one can see him the way I do.

His hand on the back of my head.  
I smell his jacket; safe in the closet.

Latch onto him without hesitation.  
Might as well be hugging myself.

His stubble scratches my cheek.  
He held me in his arms like this before.

When I was going through withdrawal, he made sure I threw up in the trash instead of all over myself.  
Watched over me while I slept.  
Made sure I was alive, after I found Shayla.

He's pushed me harder than anyone else could.  
My only real friend, besides Qwerty.

He will always be here for me.  
He told me he loves me.  
He loves me.

I want to believe him.  
I wish I could forget what I know.

He's not my father.  
I have to remember this.

I tell him I want to trust him.  
That I'm sorry for the way I thought about him sometimes.

He pauses.  
Takes my face in his hands and tells me not to apologize again.  
He isn't my father.  
He isn't gonna call me sick.  
Don't I understand that?

I nod.  
Wishing I believed him.  
He bites his tongue.  
I look away.


End file.
